


Sword and Sorcerer

by TurtleTotem



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon Disabled Character, Charles in a Wheelchair, M/M, Swords & Sorcery, sappier than the summary makes it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 12:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17981186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: Logan hates working with sorcerers, but Charles is offering enough gold to make him leave his comfort zone. He might be offering something else, too, if Logan is interested.





	Sword and Sorcerer

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Gerec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/pseuds/Gerec) in the [xmenrarepairs19](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmenrarepairs19) collection. 



People moved out of Logan's path without question as he walked through the market. Perhaps it was the sword on his belt and the scars on his leather armor. Perhaps it was the faint smell of blood and animal musk that always seemed to hang in the air around him. Perhaps it was something even more subtle, some half-conscious awareness that Logan was other than human. He didn't carry his half-fae ancestry as obviously as some unfortunates; his claws did not display unless he wished them to, and his unnaturally swift healing would be seen only by those who injured him. They seldom lived to tell of it. But fear and suspicion of the fae ran deep in mortal society, and if anyone could smell it on him—the way he could smell mortality on them—it would explain why no one made eye contact as he walked past.

Logan didn't mind. Things were easier that way. He knew what he was—a monster for hire—and there was no advantage to him getting chummy with anyone. Never worked out well when he did, for either party.

He headed for the same old tavern where he always stayed when he was in town; it might, he mused, be the closest thing he had to a home, and its proprietor the closest thing to a friend. At least, Stan was always happy to see his money.

Today, Stan looked even happier than usual to see Logan sit down at his bar. He stepped away from the shipment of new bottles he was counting and poured Logan a glass of his favorite, setting it before him with a wide smile.

"You're here just in time," he said. "I hear tell of a job that's right up your alley."

Logan had just finished a job, and not an easy one; he'd looked forward to spending his new coin on a bath and a bed, at least, before seeking any more work. So he didn't return Stan's smile as he picked up the glass and drank.

As usual, Stan didn't seem to mind Logan's surliness; the old man just kept smiling, and began idly rearranging glasses. For the first time, it occurred to Logan that Stan had been old as long as he'd known him, and that was… a long time. He didn't keep close track of the years anymore, but there had been a lot of them. He wondered if Stan might be some measure of fae himself, to be so long-lived. He smelled normal, but if he was a quarter fae or less…

"I've mentioned it to a few others," Stan said. "The job. Since I didn't know when you'd be back. But none of them bit. They've got weaker nerves than you."

"Or more sense." Logan sighed and set down his empty glass. "Go on, then. What's on offer?"

"Five hundred gold pieces."

 _"Five hundred?"_ Logan stared. "And no one else has bit? What's the job, unarmed combat with the Dragon of Drent?"

"I don't have details. Only this." Stan pulled a rolled parchment from behind the bar and laid it out flat. Logan leaned forward to see.

"Seeking hired sword," Stan read aloud; Logan could read for himself, but it was always rude to assume. "Five hundred gold pieces for successful retrieval of a captive. Must have strong nerve, dauntless demeanor, and total commitment to mission. Parties of three or more preferred."

"Bring your friends and leave behind your sense of self-preservation," Logan snorted. "Well, I don't have that last part anyway."

"You don't have any friends to take along, either."

"Don't need them. I fight as well as any three men on a bad day."

"So, like I said. Right up your alley."

Logan shrugged in reluctant agreement. "Who's hiring for this?"

"Sorcerer. Out in the Western Wild."

"Ugh. Never mind." Logan shoved the parchment away. "I don't work with sorcerers." If one didn't know better, bearers of human magic might seem the natural allies of the half-fae, but in reality it never worked out that way. Logan had never met a sorcerer who wasn't willing and eager to prove his loyalty to the human race by stepping on the fae.

"Five hundred gold, though," Stan said.

"Not worth it."

Stan shrugged. "Your choice. I gotta ask, though, that you settle your tab from last time before I rent you another room."

Logan set his purse on the bar. Only a faint _clink_ from within betrayed that it was not entirely empty. Logan opened the purse and poured out its contents—three gold pieces and a pair of coppers.

"What," Logan said, returning Stan's look. "My last employer got himself killed before he could pay me. His daughter could only give me a little. She kept _crying._ " He threw his hands up in disgust.

Stan chuckled, scooping up the money from the bartop. "You're not as cold as you wish you were, Logan."

"Well, I'm sure not as rich as I wish I were." Logan growled and slid the parchment toward himself again. "Where do I find this sorcerer?"

***

Sorcerers often liked to think they were above the people around them, but Charles Xavier took it to a new level; according to Stan's information, he lived in a fortress deep in the Western Wilds, and used magical means to keep anyone from approaching without his express permission. Logan thought he'd found the place easily enough, its stone towers looming out of the trees, but realized after an hour's walk that they were no closer now than when he'd first seen them.

 _Sorcerers._ Logan, rolling his eyes to the heavens, stopped and opened his arms. "You hiring or not, magic man?"

_I've been trying to decide that very thing._

Logan jumped, spun around—but the low, cultured, elegantly-accented voice had not come from behind him, or beside him. His nose confirmed that he was still alone in the forest.

 _Correct. I am not physically with you._ The voice in his head carried traces of a smug smile now, and Logan growled under his breath. _But I have nonetheless been watching you for some time. You are a difficult man to read, Logan._

"You got any questions for me, try just askin' them," Logan said. Stars above, he hated dealing with sorcerers. But he also hated not being able to pay for his drinks.

_How very mercenary. But it is just as well if money motivates you, because money I can provide._

A path through the trees suddenly appeared before him. Nothing had moved or changed; the path showed every sign of having been exactly where it was for years, albeit not well-used. It was as if Logan had simply not noticed it before.

 _Come_ , said the voice in his head.

If Logan couldn't find his way in without the sorcerer's help, he doubted he could find his way out, either. Hopefully this sorcerer wasn't simply dangling the high-paying job as a way of luring in unsuspecting victims.

Xavier laughed inside his head, low and sinister, and then seemed to withdraw his presence, leaving Logan alone to follow the path, or not.

 

The fortress, when he finally reached the door, was overgrown and crumbling, though it must have been very grand once. Logan wondered why the sorcerer didn't use his magic to keep the place up—but perhaps his power didn't tend that way. Magic worked a little differently for everyone, whether fae or half-fae or mortal.

The great oak door groaned open before Logan could knock, revealing what was surely a half-fae servitor—huge and muscular and covered in blue fur, golden eyes gleaming. One of those whose magic manifested as a bestial nature. He looked Logan up and down balefully, seemingly on the verge of a growl. Logan gazed back at him, defiant, hand on his sword.

"Follow me," the servitor rumbled at last, stepping back so that Logan could enter.

Somehow Logan was surprised not to be led to the top of some ominous tower, the better for Xavier to survey his domain. Instead, the half-fae servitor let him into a magnificent ground-floor library, made somewhat less impressive by dust and cobwebs and… were those empty bottles?

"Ah, Logan, welcome to the great sorcerer's lair." The same voice he'd heard in his head, now sarcastic and bitter as well as cultured. "Forgive me for not rising to greet you."

Logan watched warily as a figure stepped out of the shadows—no, not stepped, glided. Pushing himself in a wheeled chair.

Was Xavier ill? Generally sickly? Logan had seen such chairs used for invalids, and the man sure didn't look well—lank hair, scruffy whiskers, haphazard robes. He looked like he would be a small man even if he were standing, and his hands trembled as he reached for a bottle of wine on a nearby table.

In spite of all this, Logan felt a tug of internal heat, looking at the man. His eyes were a piercing, hypnotizing blue, and beneath the stubble were fair features, a soft mouth—

Logan looked away, furious at himself. Was this part of the man's sorcery?

"Drink?" Xavier said, gesturing with the wine bottle.

Logan hesitated, but Xavier hadn't waited for an answer, sloshing wine into the nearest none-too-clean glass. Oh well, Logan had drunk worse. He took the glass, and sat down in a once-elegant, now-shabby chair.

"So, the job," Xavier said. "My half-fae sister is being held captive by a rival sorcerer known as the Sentinel—"

Logan didn't think he snorted aloud, but Xavier stopped mid-sentence, shooting him a deep blue glare. "Something amusing?"

"It's pretentious, that's all," Logan said. "The way you sorcerers carry on."

"It's customary to use titles and pseudonyms to protect our true names."

"Yeah? And what do they call you, Wheels?"

The shadows of the room went abruptly black, the dim light unbearably white, and Xavier's blue gaze pinned him as surely as a sword through the gut.

 _I don't keep my magic in my legs, mercenary,_ Xavier said, his voice an echoing whisper, a thundering silence. Logan's ears rang. _You think to mock me because I look weak? I have power you cannot dream of_.

Logan's body rose from the chair of its own accord—Xavier's accord—and dropped gracefully to its knees in front of Xavier's chair.

_Give me your sword._

Helplessly, Logan did.

Xavier unsheathed the blade and pressed the tip into the hollow of Logan's throat.

 _You've made your point,_ Logan wanted to say, but his mouth wouldn't open.

He wanted to say other things, too, things he wouldn't have known _how_ to say even if his mouth were working. Things having to do with the inexplicable burn in his blood, the way his trousers suddenly seemed too small, the way Xavier didn't have to force him to keep looking into his eyes.

_I really hate working with sorcerers._

"Well, you're under no obligation to do so." Xavier flicked the sword away from his throat, pointing it off to the side. "There is the door."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Now you've insulted _and_ lied to me."

Logan smiled crookedly. "Maybe so. Still want your money, though. And I can still rescue your captive."

"Can you?" Xavier's expression remained stony, but he waved a hand, releasing Logan from his kneeling position.

Logan returned to his chair and tossed back most of the glass of wine. A crime, he realized belatedly; it was much finer stuff than he was used to. He tried to position himself so as to hide his trouser situation.

"From what I can gather," Xavier continued, tapping his temple, "your skill set is much better suited to making people dead than keeping them alive."

"For the amount of gold you're offering, I'm willing to leave my comfort zone."

After a very long moment, in which Xavier's piercing gaze did not help with the trouser situation, the sorcerer seemed to make a decision. "As I was saying, then. A sorcerer known as the Sentinel—his real name is Bolivar Trask—has taken my sister prisoner. I know where she's being held, thanks to my magic, but she's too far away for me to actually communicate with her."

"You want me to go up against a sorcerer? I'm just a sword-for-hire, Xavier. As you just demonstrated, I'm not much good against magic."

Xavier shook his head. "Trask himself is not there. Brute strength should be sufficient to secure her escape, and under most circumstances I'd rather trust a sword than a sorcerer."

"You lot don't even like each other," Logan said with a half-laugh. "Imagine how unbearable normal folk find you."

"And what would you know about normal people?" A sensation of ghostly fingers wandered over Logan's knuckles, right where his claws would come out. Logan swallowed and shook it off.

"If it's just strength you need, then why hire at all?" Logan jerked a thumb behind him, where he could smell that the forgotten blue-furred servitor was still in the room. "That one's got as much muscle as you could need."

Xavier's mouth curled in a half-smile, closer to genuine than any other Logan had seen him make. "He does have the muscle, but not the skill. Henry's mind runs to the scientific."

Startled, Logan turned to look at… Henry, who was crouched on a comically small stool, peering into a book. He had put on spectacles, and glanced up owlishly upon hearing his name.

"Oh, uh," he said, "call me Hank."

Huh. Damned if Logan hadn't fallen for exactly the kind of stereotype he complained about, but he hadn't expected that any half-fae with much mind of his own would hang around a sorcerer. Hadn't Xavier also said his sister was half-fae? This man was unusual in more ways than one.

"Hank, would you give us a moment alone?" Xavier was saying.

The scientifically-minded servitor didn't seem thrilled with the prospect of leaving his master alone with Logan, but he obeyed, giving Logan a warning glare as he went.

"What is it you need privacy for all of a sudden?" Logan said uneasily.

"It's for your privacy more than mine," Xavier said. "There is one condition to my entrusting this mission to you. I must have total access to your mind, if only briefly."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Haven't you already?"

"Oh, not at all. I've skimmed the surface, but as I said, Logan, you are a difficult man to read. I will need to put some real commitment into giving you a thorough examination, and I will not trust my sister's safety to anyone without investigating their intentions." He rubbed his legs, expression going distant. "I've been betrayed before."

Logan opened his hands. "Examine whatever you want."

Xavier looked surprised, suspicious. "You're not going to cry out against the unspeakable violation?"

"If you can figure out what's going on in my mind, sorcerer, I'll consider it a favor."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You'll see."

Still frowning, Xavier said, "Very well, then. Come closer."

Logan stood in front of Xavier's chair, and after an uncertain moment, leaned down to meet the hand Xavier raised toward him. Fingertips settled against his temple as he braced himself on the arms of the chair.

The experience was peculiar, to say the least; Logan could feel Xavier as a separate presence inside his mind, not painful but certainly foreign. Logan wanted to flinch as if from a bright light in his eyes as he felt his thoughts and emotions, goals and skills and beliefs, being examined and evaluated.

And then it got stranger, as Logan's memories began to unfold and replay without his bidding. It quickly seemed to escape even Xavier's control, all his past boiling up faster and faster—the not-really-father his mother had cuckolded with a fae, trying to beat the monster out of him; the terror of having so little control over his own nature, his senses, his claws, his blazing rage; the loved ones lost, brothers and lovers and friends, some dead at his own hand, intentionally or not; the years of warfare, endless blood and pain and death because that's what he was good at, all he was good for; memories lost and taken and returned and falsified and rejected and lost again, the foundations of his personality shaken over and over by people who wanted to use him—

 _No wonder you don't trust sorcerers._ Xavier's voice in his mind was shaken.

Logan might or might not have loosed a hysterical laugh. _Half of that I'd forgotten. You just dug up things I thought lost for decades. Most of it doesn't make sense, even to me._

 _You poor man_.

Under most circumstances Logan would have bristled; he didn't want anyone's pity. But with their minds this entwined, it was impossible not to feel Xavier's deep horror at what had been done to him, the sincerity of his compassion. He genuinely wanted to help.

 _I can untangle some of this for you,_ Xavier offered, hesitant. _Put it in chronological order. Root out anything that's not really yours. It's little enough, but I can do that._

Logan swallowed, took a breath. Nodded.

What followed was uncomfortable enough, physically and mentally, to have Logan hissing between his teeth and struggling not to pull away. Until he realized, in trying to pull away from his own mind, he'd stumbled into Xavier's.

He found there, not the bitter and dangerous sorcerer, but a little boy named Charles, lonely and unwanted, aching with overflowing love that no one seemed to want. He'd spent his life taking in anyone who would let him, helping anyone he could, and getting back rebellion and betrayal more often than not—his adopted half-fae "sister" being no exception. Charles still loved them all, everyone who had hurt him, and his sister most of all.

His sister, and the lover who had cost him his legs—a sorcerer named Erik. Charles saw his love affairs with men as just one more way he couldn't seem to get anything right, one more thing about him that was strange and unloveable. Logan, who had half-remembered beloveds of both sexes, had wondered if his own disregard for gender was a reflection of his animalistic faerie blood. But he'd never bothered to be ashamed of it. Love was too rare a thing in this world to ever be ashamed of.

Charles would know that about him, now. That and everything else. To his own surprise, Logan didn't find that idea horrifying at all.

The connection between them began to fade, Logan settling back into his own mind—now a clearer, more orderly place than he could ever remember it being. He skimmed quickly through his own memories, and swayed on his feet from the shock and relief of finally understanding the narrative of his own life. He had grown up—run away—lost his brother—trusted wrongly sometimes, and other times guarded himself too much—loved and lost so many, but now he could see how all the events related to each other. Could see that he had already outlived many of the enemies he had been trying to outrun.

"It's all right," Charles whispered, and Logan realized he was still leaning over the sorcerer in his chair. Instead of touching his temple, Charles was cupping Logan's cheek in one hand, warm and gentle, wiping away tears with his thumb. "You're going to be all right now."

"Yeah," Logan murmured, and leaned forward.

Charles tipped his face up to meet him.

 

They didn't leave the library until far into the night, when a frowning Hank woke them, opening the door to see what had become of his master. Charles chuckled at his expression, pulling the nearest fabric—a torn piece of his former robes—over his bare behind.

"All's well, Hank, sorry to worry you."

"Is… he still here? The sword-for-hire?"

Logan raised a hand from beneath Charles on the couch, and saw Hank grimace.

"Yes, Logan was just taking me up to bed," Charles said.

And so he did, carrying Charles's kitten-weight up the stairs to a favorite chamber he hadn't seen in months, and scolding him all the way about needing to eat more and drink less.

"Yes, Mother," Charles snorted, but they both knew he was enjoying the attention—not least because his own mother had never cared enough to scold.

In the bedroom, they curled close together, passion tempting but ultimately yielding to the simple animal comfort of touching, holding, tangling together in the dark. Logan pressed soft, absent-minded kisses to Charles's forehead and cheeks and jawline; Charles made low happy noises and returned them to Logan's chest and throat.

Logan felt that the entire world had changed, and for once in his long life, it was better instead of worse. The world had Charles in it now, a man who was kind and loving and _good_ in spite of everything life had thrown at him, and Charles looked at him and saw someone worth saving.

 

At dawn, Logan left the bed and began untangling the pile of clothes he'd brought up with them, hoping to at least find his trousers so that he could go downstairs and look for the rest.

"Leaving so soon?" Charles's voice from the bed was reaching desperately for casual unconcern, balanced on a knifepoint of grief, _one more person abandoning him…_

Logan crossed the room, grinning, and pressed an enthusiastic kiss against his mouth. "You hired me for a job, remember? Someone's got to rescue that sister of yours."

***

" _Charles_ ," Hank said, in the tone of someone who has already said it more than once.

"Hm?" Charles looked away from the window. He'd asked Hank to carry him to the top of the tower, which was embarrassing for both of them, but there were still books and experiments up here that he hadn't touched since… the accident. They couldn't lay forgotten forever.

And the tower window overlooked the road Logan had taken when he left. The road he would take when he returned.

If he returned.

"I said I brought you something to eat." Hank held out a tray with bread and a bowl of stew.

Charles's first instinct was to wave it away, but he remembered Logan's voice. _You need to eat more. And drink less._

"Oh, fine," Charles said, and took the tray. Hank looked so pleased when the first bite went into his mouth that Charles tasted more guilt than bread. "Hank… you've been so tirelessly kind and patient with me. You alone in all of the world haven't left me alone. You deserve better than to be trapped here with a cantankerous old thing like me."

"You've done as much for me, sir," Hank said. "Besides," he opened his paws, as if to showcase his clearly inhuman body, "where else would I go? If I don't wish to be shunned as a freak and blamed for every misfortune that befalls my neighbors."

"Still, I wish you had better company here."

"Well, perhaps I will," Hank said, skin blushing dark under his fur as he began making fidgety, ineffectual tidying motions, "when your hired sword brings Raven back safe."

Charles drew a long breath, his gaze returning to the window. "He's been gone a week. And the last time I used the amplifier, Raven's location hadn't changed…" That had been a few days ago; he couldn't use it too often, or he would be in bed with a blinding headache for days.

Hank chewed at his lip, a delicate motion for such fearsome teeth. "Do you fear that he's fled? Decided to content himself with the first part of the money, and not risk the quest?"

"No," Charles said, though it was a lie. Of course he feared that. He knew better than to think such a thing of Logan, who had more honor in his little finger than many men possessed in their entire bodies. He could not help fearing it anyway. "No," Charles repeated, making himself believe it. "I don't worry that he's fled."

Hank's voice gentled. "You worry that he's failed."

Charles swallowed, not looking away from the window. Yes, that was the greater and more terrible fear—because if Logan was honorable, and still did not return, it could only be because Charles had sent him to his death. And likely Raven's as well.

It would be just like this world, to dangle a heart like Logan's before him, to let him hold and be held by a man who saw and accepted and loved his entire self… and then take him away, only a momentary brightness in Charles's life.

And then he felt it. Feared, at first, that he only convinced himself that he felt it—but no, that was Logan, his thoughts shielded somewhat by his own half-fae magic but his presence still unmistakable. Logan, entering the very edges of the range Charles's mind could reach. Logan, and Raven too—and others, at least a dozen others. Were they being pursued? Carried as hostages?

Charles closed his eyes, threw every ounce of his magic, his focus, his racing heart and breath, into reaching Logan. Raven would not let him inside her mind if she had any choice, and he didn't begrudge her that, but Logan… Logan would let him in.

And he did, opening eagerly to Charles's presence, sharing what he knew and saw around him as easily as breath.

_Charles, look!_

The dozen others with them were all mortal mages and half-fae, most of them children, some little more than babes. Raven was carrying one, cradled to her chest. Logan was carrying three.

 _Raven wasn't Trask's only prisoner_ , Logan said.

"Are you talking to Charles?" Raven cried from beside him. She looked bruised and tousled, but essentially unharmed, golden eyes sparkling and a bounce in her step. "Tell him I'm sorry for missing his birthday, but here's a few gifts!"

 _Why did Trask have children?_ Charles asked, appalled.

"Studying them," Logan growled. "Trying to raise them into his own magical army, I think. Most of them don't know where they came from exactly, or how to get back there. Some of them's parents sold them to Trask outright."

"I'm sure some of them can be reunited with their families," Raven said, stroking the cheek of the baby she held, "with a little work. But not all."

 _But why are you bringing them_ here? _You've already passed a dozen towns and villages…_

"Because I knew you'd help them." Logan's voice was soft, his mind bright with something warm and quiet, unspoken but real. "And hey, I figured if you were willing to pay five hundred gold for one rescue, this ought to get me at least triple."

 _Fair enough,_ Charles said, wiping tears with one hand, and reaching out with the other to reassure a frantic Hank. _But you might have to wait around a while until I can save up the money._

 _I can do that,_ Logan sent back, and Charles could feel his half-hearted irritation at the tears prickling in his own eyes. _I can stick around as long as you want. I got nowhere to be._

 _You do have somewhere to be, now and always, Logan,_ Charles replied. _Welcome home._


End file.
